


The Templar: The Last Wish

by Pandigital



Series: The Templar series [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Based on the witcher books, Ciri!Lavellan, F/M, M/M, Magic, Monsters, Pairings are subject to change and have not been decided on yet, Witcher crossover, Witcher!Cullen, Yennfer!Vivienne, all pairing tags will stay until I know where to take tho story, if this make any people uncomfortable because they came for their OTP and it is here, pairings subject to change sorry, well here it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11269332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandigital/pseuds/Pandigital
Summary: Cullen of Ferelden is a templar. A cunning sorcerer. A merciless assassin. And a cold-blooded killer. His sole purpose: to destroy the monster that plague the world. But not everything monstrous-looking is evil and not everything fair is good.





	1. The voice of reason

**Author's Note:**

> The Witcher is property of Andrzej Sapkowski  
> Dragon Age is property of Bioware.  
> All content belongs to their original creators.  
> This work is merely fiction and fan based.

She came to him toward morning. She entered very carefully, moving silently, floating through the chamber like a phantom: the only sound was that of her mantle brushing against her naked skin. Skin as dark as the night with hair to match. Yet this faint sound was enough to wake the templar—or maybe it only tore him from the half-slumber in which he rocked monotonously. He did not move, did not stir. The girl flitted closer, threw off the mantle and slowly, hesitantly, rested her knee on the edge of the large bed. He observed her through lowered lashes, still not betraying his wakefulness. 

The girl carefully climbed onto the bedclothes and onto him, wrapping her thighs around him. She was thin, the thinness of too few meal. A whores body. It looked like it hurt to live in her skin. It hurt to live his. He had seen the way the women in the brothels looked at his scars. Fear and wonder. 

They knew what he was and that alone was enough for them to hover that the door he would take one of them behind. It was funny, what would they do? A small army couldn’t stop a templar, what could three girl do to him? What could three girl, two older women and the madame of the house do? What what the bastard boys born in the house do? Nothing. And they knew it.

His brothers in arms abused that power over them. He didn’t. He just wanted company for the night and a warm body to sink into for a short while. It was an even trade off. Money for fake love. And a bed to sleep it off in. Leaning forward on straining arms, she brushed his face with hair which smelled of chamomile. 

Determined, and as if impatient, she leaned over and touched his eyelids, cheeks, lips with the tips of her fingers. He smiled, very slowly, delicately, grasping her by the shoulders, and she straightened, escaping his fingers. She was radiant, luminous in the misty brilliance of dawn. He moved, but with pressure from both hands, she forbade him to change positions and, with a slight but decisive movement of her hips, demanded a response. He responded. She no longer backed away from his hands; she threw her head back, shook her hair. Her skin was cool and surprisingly smooth. 

Her eyes, glimpsed when her face came close to his, were huge and dark as the eyes of a water nymph. Brown and human and wide. He swiped his thumbs under them and pulled her close. She had eyes like his little one. Too much soul. He pushed up and she pushed down. Rocked, he sank into a sea of chamomile. 


	2. chapter one

It was said that the man came from the north, from Haven Gate. He came on foot, leading his laden horse by the bridle. It was late afternoon and the ropers’, sadlers’, and tanners’ stalls were already closed, the street empty. It was hot but the man had a black coat thrown over his shoulders. He drew attention to himself. He stopped in front of the Dana’s Refuge Inn, stood there for a moment, listened to the hubbub of voices. As usual, at this hour, it was full of people. 

If he closed his eyes he could hear them, each heartbeat loud and roaring in their chest. Some women inside were with child and the tiny, second heartbeat, echoed meekly to the mother tune it could hear. His own heart did not beat as fast, ever. Slow and cold and even paced always. He could not make his heart beat faster unless he was on the hunt. He looked at the sign on the building for a long moment. He turned his gaze away from it. 

The stranger did not enter Dana’s Refuge Inn. He pulled his horse farther down the street to another tavern, a smaller one, called the Gnawed Noble Tavern. Not enjoying the best of reputations, it was almost empty. The innkeeper raised his head above a barrel of pickled cucumbers, shutting off the tap to the beer, and measure the man with his gaze. The outsider, still in his coat, stood stiffly in front of the counter, motionless and silent. 

“What will it be?” 

“Beer.” said the stranger. His voice was unpleasant in the way it was so smooth and pleasing to the ear. A man like this should have an unpleasant voice to match his eyes. The innkeeper wiped his hands on his canvas apron and filled a chipped earthenware tankard. The stranger was not old but his hair was almost entirely white. Beneath his coat he wore a worn leather jerkin laced up at the neck and shoulders. 

As he took off his coat those around him noticed that he carried a sword—not something unusual in itself, nearly every man in Ferelden carried a weapon—but no one carried a sword strapped to his back as if it were a bow or quiver. The stranger did not sit at the table with the few other guest. He remained standing at the counter, piercing the innkeeper with his gaze. He drew from the tankard.

The beer was decent enough. They had better at Skyhold. Then again, Carver often made the beer. That boy knew how to brew. He often joked that his family liked to drink, why wouldn’t he know? He had been a young boy when they come for him. He still had memories of his old life before becoming a templar. 

“I’m looking for a room for the night.” 

“There’s none,” grunted the innkeeper, looking at the guest’s book, dusty and dirty, “Ask at the Dana’s Refuge Inn.”

“I would rather stay here.” 

“There is none.” the innkeeper finally recognized the strangers accent. He was from the Tevinter Imperium.

“I’ll pay.” the outsider spoke quietly, as if unsure, and the whole nasty affair began. A pockmarked beanpole of man, who, from the moment the outsider had entered had not taken his gloomy eyes from him, got up and approached the counter. Two of his companions rose behind him, no more than two paces away. 

“There’s no room to be had, you Imperium vagabond,” rasped the pockmarked man, standing right next to the outsider, “We don’t need people like you in Ferelden. This is a decent town!” The outsider took his tankard and moved away. He glaned at the innkeeper, who avoided his eyes. It did not even occur to him to defend the Tevinter. After all, who liked Tevinters? 

“All Imperiums are thieves,” the pockmarked man went on, his breath smelling of beer, garlic and anger, “Do you hear me, you bastard?” 

“He can’t hear you. His ears are full of shit.” said one of the men with the pockmarked man, and the second man cackled. 

“Pay and leave!” yelled the pocked man. 

Only now did the Tevinter look at him, “I’ll finish my beer.” 

“We’ll give you a hand.” the pockmarked man hissed. He knocked the tankard from the stranger’s hand and simultaneously grabbed him by the shoulder, dug his fingers into the leather strap across the outsiders chest.  One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike. The outsider curled up on the spot, throwing the pockmarked man off balance. The sword hissed in it sheath and glistened briefly in the dim light. The place seethed. 

There was a scream, and one of the few remaining customers tumbled toward the exit. A chair fell with a crash and earthenware smacked hollowly against the floor. The innkeeper, his lips trembling, looked at the horribly slashed face of the pockmarked man, who, clinging with his fingers to the edge of the counter, was slowly sinking from sight. The other two were lying on the floor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing in a dark, spreading puddle. A woman’s hysterical scream vibrated in the air, piercing the ears as the innkeeper shuddered, caught his breath, and vomited. The stranger retreated toward the wall, tense and alert. He held the sword in both hands, sweeping the blade through the air. 

No one moved. Terror, like cold mud, was clear on their faces, paralyzing limbs and blocking throats. Three guards rushed into the tavern with thuds and clangs. They must have been close by. They had truncheons wound with leather straps at the ready, but at the sight of corpses, drew their swords. The Tevinter pressed his back against the wall and, with his left hand, pulled a dagger from his boot. He snapped his teeth at them. 

He would forever thank Iron Bull for smacking him upside the head until he had a knot to hide the dagger in his boot. He had once tried to say that he would have no time in a real fight to grab a dagger from his boot. Iron Bull had laughed until his belly had been like water ripples. He had found out, quickly, that in a real fight, time meant nothing. A single moment could last for years. The dagger had been in his boots ever since he had left Skyhold. It had seen plenty of action between here and there. 

“Throw that down!” one of the guards yelled with a trembling voice, “Throw that down, you thug! You’re coming with us!” 

The second guard kicked aside the table between him and the Tevinter. 

“Go get that man, you cowardly private!” the first guard shouted to the third, who had stayed closer to the door. 

“No need,” said the stranger, lowering his sword, “I’ll come by myself.” 

“You’ll go, you son of a bitch, on the end of a rope!” yelled the trembling guard, “Throw that sword down or I’ll smash your head in!” 

The Tevinter straightened. He quickly pinned his blade under his left arm and with his right hand raised toward the guards, swiftly drew a complicated sign in the air. The clout-nails which studded his tunic from his wrist to elbow flashed. The guards drew back, shielding their faces with their arms. One of the customers sprang up while another darted to the door. The woman screamed again, wild and earsplitting. 

“I’ll go by myself,” repeated the stranger in his resounding, melodious yet somehow metallic voice, “And the three of you will go in front of me. Take to the castellan. I don’t know the way.” 

“Yes, sir.” mumbled the guard, dropping his head. He made toward the exit, looking around tentatively. The other two guards followed him out backward, hastily. The stranger followed in their tracks, sheathing his sword and dagger. As they passed the tables the remaining customers hid their faces from the dangerous stranger. As the stranger passed his horse, he pet its muzzle, and let it loose. 

He clicked his tongue at it and pointed down the way they had come. And off the horse went. Heavy with bags and at a easy gait. The man watched it go for a moment and then went on following the guards. He put his sword away and as they went up the stairs to the castellan, he put away his dagger. The building itself was dull. What a fitting place to learn something, possibly, horrible. 


	3. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stranger is strange no longer

Andrzej, castellan of Ferelden, scratched his chin. He was neither superstitious nor fainthearted but he did not relish the thought of being alone with the white-haired man. At last he made up his mind. “Leave,” he ordered the guards, “and you, sit down. No, no. Not there. Farther away if you please.”

The stranger sat down. He no longer carried his sword or black coat. His eyes traced the room and then locked onto Andrezej. He was an older man with flabby cheeks and a heavy stomach. The stranger licked the backs of his teeth to keep his words. He could hear the guards outside the tiny office and the wood splitting slowly in the fireplace. He waited, this man looked like he was a talker. 

“I am Andrzej, castellan of Ferelden,” said Andrzej, toying with a heavy mace lying on the table, “and I’m listening. What do you have to say for yourself, you brigand, before you are thrown into the dungeon? Three killed and an attempted spell-casting; not bad, not bad at all. Men are impaled for such things in Ferelden. But I’m a just man, so I will listen to you, before you are executed. Speak.” 

The Tevinter unbuttoned his jerkin and pulled out a wad of white goat leather, “You nail this crossways, in taverns,” he said quietly, “Is what’s written true?”

“Ah,” Andrzej grunted, looking at the runes etched into the leather, “so that’s it. And I didn’t guess at once. Yes, it’s true. It’s signed by Maric Theirin, King of Ferelden, Redcliffe and Denerim, which makes it true. A proclamation, templar, but law is law—and I take care of the law and order in Ferelden. I will not allow people to be murdered! Do you understand?” 

The Tevinter blinked slowly at him, his golden eyes glowing in the fire light, “Yes.” 

“You carry the templar emblem? And do you have a name? Any name will do, it’s simply to make conversations easier.” 

The stranger once more reached into his jerkin and pulled up the silver medallion on a silver chain. The holy flaming sword sticking up behind a lion's head, bearing its fangs at the world, the eyes tiny red rubies. It was a horrid thing to look at, “My name is Cullen.” 

“Cullen, then. Of Tevinter I gather, from your accent?” 

Cullen scoffed, “No. I was there a long time on work. I hail from here.” 

“Right. Cullen of Ferelden. Do you know what, Cullen? This—”Andrzej slapped the proclamation, “—let it go. It’s a serious matter. Many have tried and failed already. This, my friend, is not the same as roughing up a couple of scoundrels.” 

“I know. This is my job, Andrzej. And that proclamation offers a three thousand coin reward.” Cullen said with another very slow blink. 

“Three thousand,” Andrzej scowled, “and the princess as a wife, or so rumor says, although gracious Maric has not proclaimed that.”

“I’m not interested in the princess,” Cullen said calmly. He was sitting motionless, his hands on his knees, “just in the three thousand coin.” 

“What times.” sighed the castellan, “what foul times! Twenty years ago who would have guessed though, even in a drunken stupor, that such a profession as a templar would exist? Itinerant killers of basilisk; traveling slayers of dragons and vodniks! Tell me, Cullen, are you allowed beer in your guild?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Beer!” he called, “And sit closer, Cullen. What do I care?” The beer arrived cold and frothy. Cullen looked down into the mug. It was a thick beer. He could smell the grain they used to make it. 

Earthy tones that licked at the back of your throat. The yeast was a little old, but still good. They had boiled the water before using it, to make it clean. Smart. He had beer that had been made from water that hadn’t been boiled. It had tasted fine, but never great. Carver used boiled water that had been put into earthen jugs with lids and buried in semi-moist dirt to be kept cool before their beer in Skyhold. 

“It smells good.” he said but Andrzej didn’t seem to hear him. 

“Foul times,” Andrzej muttered, drinking deep from his tankard, “All sorts of filth has sprung up around Denerim, in the mountains it’s teeming with boogeymen. In the past it was just wolves howling in the woods, but not it’s ghouls and spriggans wherever your spit, werewolves or some other vermin. Fairies and vampires snatch children from villages by the hundreds. We have diseases never heard of before; it makes my hair stand on end. And now, to top it all off, this!” he pushed the wad of leather, back across the table, “It’s not surprising, Cullen, that templars’ services are in demand.” 

“The king’s proclamation, castellan.” Cullen raised his head, “Do you know the details?” 

Andrzej leaned back in his chair, locked his hands over his stomach, “The details? Yes, I know them. Not first hand perhaps, but from a good source.” 

“That’s what I want.” 

“If you insist, then listen.” Andrzej drank some beer, and lowered his voice, “During the reign of Meghren, his father, when our gracious king was still a prince, Maric showed us what he was capable of, and he was capable of a great deal. We hoped he would grow out of it. But shortly after his coronation, Maric surpassed himself, jaw-droppingly: he got his own sister with child. Rowan was younger and they were always together but nobody suspected anything except, perhaps, the queen...to get to the point: suddenly there is Rowan with a huge belly, and Maric talking about getting wed to his sister. The situation was made even more tense because Aimee of Orlais wanted his daughter, Merise, to marry Maric and had already sent out his envoys. We had to restrain Maric from insulting them, and lucky we did, or Aimee would have torn our insides out.

“Then, not without Rowan’s help—for she influenced her brother—we managed to dissuade the boy from a quick wedding. Well then, Rowan gave birth. And now listen, because this is where it all starts. Only a few saw what she bore, but one midwife jumped from the tower window to her death and the other lost her senses and remains dazed to this day. So I gather the royal bastard—a girl—was not comely, and she died immediately. No one was in a hurry to tie the umbilical cord. Nor did Rowan, to her good fortune, survive the birth. 

“But then Maric stepped in again. Wisdom dictated that the royal bastard should have been burned or buried in the wilderness. Instead, on the orders of our gracious king, she was laid to rest in a sarcophagus in the vaults beneath the palace.” 

Royals and their vaults. Cullen would have shaken his head had he not needed this man to keep talking. This is why dead things should be burnt. Even monster need meat to live and nothing can live off ash. Nothing. Templars had been taught that early on. Burn any and all bodies, lest you want a new problem to rise up. 

“It’s too late for your wisdom now.” Cullen raised his head once more from looking into the mug, “One of the Knowing Ones should have been sent for.” 

“You mean those charlatans with stars on their hats? Of course. About ten of them came running later, when it became known what lay in the sarcophagus. And what scrambled out it at night. Though it didn’t start manifesting straight away. Oh, no. For seven years after the funeral there was peace.

“Then one night—it was a full moon—there were screams in the palace, shouting and commotion! I don’t have to tell you, this is your trade and you’ve read the proclamation. The infant had grown in the coffin—and how!—grown to have incredible teeth! In a word, she became a striga. Pity you didn’t see the corpses, as I did. Had you, you’d have taken a great detour to avoid Ferelden.” 

“I doubt it.” Cullen said. 

“Then, as I was saying,” Andrzej continued, “Maric summoned a whole crowd of sorcerers. They all jabbered at the same time and almost came to blows with those staffs they carry—to beat off the dogs, no doubt, once they’ve been set loose on them. And I think they regularly are. I’m sorry, Cullen, if you have a different opinion of wizards. No doubt you do, in your profession, but to me they are swindlers and fools. You templars inspire greater confidence in men. At least you are straightforward.” 

That was not entirely true. Iron Bull had often said that what was done to them made it easy for “normal” people to think them straightforward. The templar order makes them stone faced and dulled tone. It had much less to do with being straightforward and more to do with that they just couldn’t get people to understand them. Too much dry wit and dry tones. But, Iron Bull had often said after, let them think what they wanted. It helped. 

Cullen smiled and commented, “If you say so.” 

“But, to the point,” the castellan peered into his tankard and poured more beer for himself and the templar, “some of the sorcerers’ advice didn’t seem so stupid. One suggested burning the striga together with the palace and the sarcophagus. Another advised chopping her head off. The rest were keen on driving aspen stakes into her body during the day, when the she-devil was asleep in her coffin, worn out by her night’s delight. Unfortunately one, a jester with a pointed hat and a bald pate, a hunchback hermit, argued it was magic: the spell could be undone and the striga would turn into Maric’s little daughter, as pretty as a picture. Someone simply had to stay in the crypt throughout the night, and that would be that. After which—can you imagine such a fool?—he went to the palace for the night. 

“Little of him was left in the morning, only, I believe, his hat and stick. But Maric clung to his idea like a burr to a dog’s tail. He forbade any attempt to kill the striga and brought in charlatans from all corners of Ferelden to reverse the spell and turn her into a princess. What colorful company! Twisted women, cripples, dirty and louse-ridden. It was pitiful. They went ahead and cast spells—mainly over a bowl and tankard. 

“Of course some were quickly exposed as frauds by Maric or the council. A few were even hung on the palisades, but not enough of them. I would have hung them all. I don’t suppose I have to say that the striga, in the meantime, was getting her teeth into all sorts of people every now and again and paying no attention to the fraudsters and their spells. Or that Maric was no longer living in the palace. Or anyone. No one lived there anymore.” 

Andrzej paused, drank some beer, and the templar waited in silence, “And so it’s been for seven years, Cullen, because she was born around fourteen years ago. We’ve had a few other worries, like war with Aimee of Orlais—fought for real, understandable reasons—over the border posts, not for some princess or marriage alliance. Maric sporadically hints at marriage and looks over portraits of neighboring courts, which he then throws down the privy. And every now and then his mania seizes hold of him again, and he sends horsemen out to look for new sorcerers. His promised reward, the three thousand, has attracted any number of cranks, stray knights, even a shepherd known throughout the whole region as a cretin, may he rest in peace. But the striga is still doing well. Every now and again she gets her teeth into someone. 

“You get used to it. And at least those heroes trying to reverse the spell have a use—the beast stuffs herself on the spot and doesn’t roam beyond her palace. Maric has a new palace, of course, quite a fine one.”

Cullen has seen it from the dirt road leading in. If he was being honest, all of them looked about the same. Except one. He had once seen an elven palace, and he had been rushed through it. The Elf Queen, Mahariel, had a floating palace made of glass over a waterfall. Everything had been made of smooth white stone and cool water had run through it. He had been in a rush though, with a burden in his arms, and a king waiting on the other side of a magic portal for what he carried; for what Mahariel had told him to take to that king. 

“In seven years,” Cullen said as he tilted his head back to drink his beer, “in  _ seven _ years, no one has settled the matter?” 

“Well, no.” Andrzej gaze penetrated the templar, “Because the matter can’t be settled. We have to come to terms with it, especially Maric, our gracious and beloved ruler, who will keep nailing proclamations up at crossroads. Although there are fewer volunteers now. There was one recently, but he insisted on the three thousand in advance. So we put him a sack and threw him in the lake.” 

“There is still no shortage of fraudsters then.” 

“No, far from it,” the castellan agreed without taking his eyes off the templar, “that’s why you mustn’t demand gold in advance when you go to the palace. If you go.” 

“I’ll go.” 

“It’s up to you. But remember my advice. As we’re talking about the reward, there has been word recently about the second part of it. I mentioned it to you: the princess for a wife. I don’t know who made it up, but what if the striga looks the way they say then it’s an exceptionally grim joke. Nevertheless there’s been no lack of fools racing to the palace for the chance of joining the royal family. Two apprentice shoemakers, to be precise. Why are shoemakers so foolish, Cullen?” 

“I don’t know. And templars, castellan? Have they tried?” 

Templars did not have a system like an army or even knights, no one ever truly knew where someone from their order was at any given moment; or if they even still drew breath in their lungs. They roamed all over doing work. Their stronghold was Skyhold, but only trainees and the truly  _ old  _ templars stayed there. But they did write to those who had been in their class, though not often. Last he had heard, his old friend Sampson had been in Ferelden while he had been in Tevinter. But then again, he had been in Tevinter for a long time. Templars lived long lives compared to normal people. 

Andrzej clicked his teeth, “There were a few. But when they heard the spell was to be lifted and the striga wasn’t killed, they mostly shrugged and left. That’s one of the reasons why my esteem for templars has grown, Cullen. And one came along, younger than you—I forget his name, if he gave it all. He tried.” 

Sampson. He was like that. If a job sounded like it was a bust, then he wouldn’t take it, the amount of money be damned. A young templar, though, not Carver, he had written that he had gone home to see his sisters and mother, for a funeral: his father's. His family hailed from Tevinter, and that letter had come only a few days before Cullen had left the country to trek into Ferelden. Someone from Carvers class then. Pig-headed boys, the whole lot of them. 

“And?” 

“The fanged princess spread his entrails over a considerable distance.” 

Cullen nodded, “That was all of them?” 

“There was one other.” Andrzej remained silent for a while and the templar didn’t urge him on. The castellan said finally, “Yes, there was one more. At first, when Maric threatened him with the noose if he killed or harmed the striga, he laughed and started packing his belongings. But then—” Andrzej leaned over the table, lowered his voice to almost a whisper, “—then he undertook the task. You see, Cullen, there are some wise men in Ferelden, in high positions, who’ve had enough of this whole affair. Rumor has it these men persuaded the templar, in secret, not to fuss around with spells but to batter the striga to death and tell the king the spell had failed, that his dear daughter had been killed in self-defense—an accident at work. 

“The king, of course, would be furious and refuse to pay a coin in reward. But that would be an end to it. The witty templar replied we could chase strigas ourselves for nothing. Well, what could we do? We collected money, bargained...but nothing came of it.” 

Cullen raised an eyebrow, “Do enlighten me.” 

“Nothing,” repeated Andrzej, “the templar didn’t want to try that first night. He trudged around, lay in wait, wandered about the neighborhood. Finally, they say, he saw the striga in action, as she does not clamber from her crypt just to stretch her legs. He saw her and scarpered that night. Without a word.” 

At this, Cullen did have to think. It was not as though all templars knew each other, but some had earned titles worthy of being remembered for generations. But this sounded off. Templars either took the job or refused it. There was no such thing as looking and running away. Unless it was someone from the raven class. They had been known to run at the first sight of trouble, all save Sampson, who was too proud to run. 

Cullen’s expression changed a little, in what was probably supposed to be a smile, “Those wise men,” he said softly, “they still have the money, no doubt? Templars don’t take payment in advance.” 

“No doubt they still do.” Andrzej said.

“Does the rumor say how much they offer?” 

Andrzej bared his teeth in a smile, “Some say eight hundred—” Cullen shook his head and the castellan murmured, “—others talk of a thousand.”

“Not much when you bear in mind that rumor likes to exaggerate. And the king is offering three thousand coins.” 

“Don’t forget about the betrothal.” Andrzej mocked, “What are you talking about? It’s obvious you won’t get the three thousand.” 

“How’s it obvious?” 

Andrzej thumbed the table, “Cullen, do not spoil my impression of templars! This has been going on for more than seven years! The striga is finishing off up to fifty people a year, fewer now that people are avoiding the palace. Oh no, my friend, I believe in magic. I’ve seen a great deal and I believe, to a certain extent in the abilities of wizards and templars. But all this nonsense about lifting the spell was made up by a hunchbacked, snotty old man who’d lost his mind on his hermits diet. It’s nonsense which no one but Maric believes. 

“Rowan gave birth to a striga because she slept with her brother. That is the truth, and no spell will help. Now the striga devours people—as strigas do—she has killed, and that is that. Listen: two years ago peasants from some godforsaken hole near Denerim were plagued by a dragon devouring their sheep. They set out together, battered the dragon to death with stanchions, and did not even think it worth boasting about. But we in Ferelden are waiting for a miracle and bolting our doors every full moon, or tying our criminals to a stake in front of the palace, praying the beast stuffs herself and returns to her sarcophagus.” 

Cullen had heard of the town who had beaten a dragon to death. A few of his brothers had gone to see this town. That dragon has reduced it ash and laid a clutch of eggs atop it. The people liked hearing stories of their own kind beating the monsters. But they couldn’t. They hadn’t been beaten and changed to kill monsters. They didn’t have ice in their veins, a crushing wonder of if you had a soul, or bottomless pits for a heart. 

“Not a bad method.” Cullen smiled, “Are there fewer criminals?”  

“Not a bit of it.”

“Which way to the palace, the new one?” 

“I will take you myself. And what about the wise men’s suggestion?” 

“Castellan,” said Cullen, “why act in haste? After all, I really could have an accident at work, irrespective of my intentions. Just in case, the wise men should be thinking about how to save me from the king’s anger and get those fifteen hundred coins, of which rumor speaks, ready.” 

“It was to be a thousand.” Andrzej said slowly. 

Cullen smirked, leaned forward—his first true movement since entering the office—and spoke categorically, “No, Lord Andrzej. The templar who was offered a thousand ran at the mere sight of the striga, without bargaining. So the risk is greater than a thousand. Where it is greater than one and half remains to be seen. Of course, I will say goodbye beforehand.” 

“Cullen?” Andrzej scratched his head, “One thousand two hundred?” 

“No. This isn't an easy task. The king is offering three, and sometimes it’s easier to lift a spell than to kill. But one of my predecessors would have done so, or the striga, if this were simple. You think they let themselves be devoured out of fear of the king?”

“Then templar,” Andrzej nodded wistfully, “our agreement stands. But a word of advice—say nothing to the king about the danger of a work accident.” 


	4. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the king, meet the mage, and Cullen is still looking for the truth.

Maric was slim and had a pretty—too pretty—face. He was under forty, Cullen thought. The king was sitting on a dwarf armchair carved from black wood, his legs stretched out toward the hearth, where two dogs were warming themselves. Next to him sitting a chest was an older, powerfully built man with a beard. Behind the king another man, richly dressed and with a proud look on his face, stood. A magnate. 

“A templar from Ferelden.” said the king after a beat of silence, which had fallen after Andrzej introduction.

“Yes, your majesty.” Cullen said, lowering his head. 

“What has made your hair so white? Magic? I can see you are not old. That was a joke. Say nothing. You’ve had a fair amount of experience, I dare presume?” 

“Yes, your majesty.” 

“I would love to hear about it.” 

Cullen would have  _ loved  _ to tell this man what he could do. Tell him about the things he had killed. The men like him he had killed. He wanted to. Some very tiny part of him wanted to drag up all the blood from his past and show this man how red his hands were. But another voice, louder and older and more gruff than his own, said not to be stupid if he wanted to get paid. He had been taught better than that. 

Cullen bowed even lower, “Your majesty, you know our code of practice forbids us to speak of our work.” 

“A convenient code, templar, very convenient. But tell me,  have you had anything to do with spriggans?” 

“Yes.” 

“Vampires, leshys?” 

“Those too.” 

Maric paused, “Strigas?” 

Cullen looked Maric in the eyes—and Maric flinched as those golden hellish eyes locked onto his own—and he spoke evenly, “Yes.” 

Maric turned his eyes away, “Andrzej!” 

“Yes, your gracious majesty?” Andrzej said with a sniff. 

“Have you given him the details?” 

Andrzej nodded his head, “Yes, your gracious majesty. He says the spell cast on the princess can be reversed.” 

“I have known that for a long time. How, templar? Oh, of course, I forgot. Your code of practice. All right. I will make one small comment. Several templars have been here already.

“Andrzej, you told him? Good. So I know that your speciality is to kill, rather than to reverse spells. This isn’t an option. If one hair falls from my daughter's head, your head will be on a block. That is all. Gordon, Lord Sven, stay and give him all the information he requires.

“Templars always ask a lot of questions. Feed him and let him stay in the palace. He is not to drift from tavern to tavern.” The king rose, whistled to his dogs and made his way to the door. At the door, he paused: “If you succeed, templar, the reward is yours. Maybe I will add something if you do well. Not the nonsense spread by the common folk about marrying the princess carries not a word of truth. I’m sure you don’t believe I would give my daughter’s hand to a stranger?” 

“No, your majesty. I don’t.” 

“Good. That shows you have  _ some  _ wisdom.” 

Maric left, closing the door behind him. Andrzej and the mage, who had been standing all the while, immediately sat at the table. The castellan finished the king’s half-full cup, peered into the jug and cursed. Gordon, who took Maric’s chair, scowled at the templar while he stroked the carved armrests. Sven, the bearded man, nodded at Cullen. 

Sven waved at Cullen, “Do sit, templar, sit. Supper will soon be served. What would you like to know? Castellan Andrzej has probably told you everything. I know him, he has sooner told you too much than too little.” 

“Only a few questions.” 

“Ask.” 

Cullen stiffly took a seat, “The castellan said that, after the striga’s appearance, the king called up many Knowing Ones.” 

“That’s right. But don’t say striga, say princess. It makes it easier to avoid making a mistake in the king’s presence—and any consequent unpleasantness.” Gordon huffed.

“Was there anyone well known among the Knowing Ones? Anyone famous?” 

Andrzej titled his head, “There were such, then and later. I don’t remember the names. Do you, Lord Sven?”

“I don’t recall,” said the mage, “but I know some of them enjoyed fame and recognition. There was much talk of it.” 

Cullen itched at his eye with one quick swipe of his fingernail to get rid of it, “Were they in agreement that the spell can be lifted?” 

“They were far from any agreement,” Gordon smiled, “on any subject. But such an opinion was expressed. It was supposed to be simple, not even requiring magical abilities. As I understand it, it would suffice for someone to spend the night—from sunset to the third crowing of the rooster, exactly—by the sarcophagus.” 

“Simple indeed.” snorted Sven. 

“I would like the hear the description of the...the princess.” Cullen said slowly. He had met many high born ladies and princess’. Many of them had been monsters in their own right, but none had been literal monsters. He would play along. 

Sven leapt from his chair, “The princess looks like a striga!” he yelled, “Like the most  _ strigish _ striga I have heard of! Her royal highness, the cursed bastard, is four cubits high, shaped like a barrel of beer, has a maw which stretches from ear to ear and is full of dagger-like teeth, has red eyes and a red mop of hair. Her paws—with claws like a wild cats—hang down to the ground! I’m surprised we’ve yet to send her likeness to friendly courts! The princess—plague choke her!—Is already fourteen! Time to think of giving her hand to a prince away in marriage!” 

“Hold on, Sven.” Gordon protested softly, glancing at the door the king had gone threw. Sven sneered at him. 

Andrzej sighed heavily and rubbed his temples, “The description, although vivid, is reasonably accurate and that’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Cullen? Sven didn’t mention that the princess moves with incredible speed and is far stronger for her height and build than one would expect. And she is fourteen years old, if that is of any importance.” 

“It is,” Cullen admitted, “Do the attacks on people only occur during the full moon?”

“Yes,” replied Sven, “if she attacks beyond the old palace. Within the palace walls people always die, irrespective of the moon's phase. But she only ventures out during the full moon, and not always then.” 

Cullen itched at his left ankle with his boot on the other foot, “Has there been even one attack during the day?” 

“No.” 

“Does she always devour her victims?” 

Andrzej spat vehemently on the straw, the glob was sickly yellow and thick. Disgusting. 

“Come on, Cullen, it’ll be supper soon and I don’t wish to upset my stomach too much. Devours, takes a bite, leaves aside, it varies—according to her mood, no doubt. She only bit the head from one, gutted a couple, and a few more she picked clean to the bone, sucked them dry, you could say. Damned mother’s—”

“Careful, Sven,” snarled Gordon, “Say what you want about the striga but do not insult Rowan in front of me, as you would not dare in the king’s presence!”  

“Has anyone she’s attacked survived?” Cullen inquired paying no special to the argument between the mage and the lord before him. 

Gordon and Sven look at each other. 

“Yes,” Gordon says slowly, “At the beginning, seven years ago, she threw herself at two soldiers standing guard over the crypt. One escaped—”

Sven interrupts, “And then there was another, the miller she attacked near the town. You remember?” 


	5. chapter four

The following day, late in the evening, the miller was brought to the small chamber above the guardhouse allocated to the Templar. He was led in by a soldier in a hooded coat. The conversation did not yield any significant results. The miller was terrified; he mumbled and stammered, and his scar told the Templar more than he did. The striga could open her jaw impressively wide and had extremely sharp teeth, including very long upper fangs—for of them, two on each side. Her claws were sharper than a wildcats, but less curved. And it was only because of that the miller had managed to tear himself away. 

Having finished his examination Cullen nodded to the miller and soldier, dismissing them. The soldier pushed the peasant through the door and lowered his hood. It was Maric himself. 

“Sir, do not get up,” said the king, “this visit is unofficial. Are you happy with the interview? I heard you were at the palace this morning.”  

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“When will you set about your task?” 

“It is four days until the full moon. After that.” 

“You prefer to have a look at her yourself beforehand?” 

“There is no need. But having had her fill the...the princess will be less active.” 

“Striga, master Templar, striga. Let us not play at diplomacy. She will be a princess afterward. And that is what I have come to talk about. Answer me unofficially, briefly and clearly: will it work or not? Don’t hide behind your code.” 

Cullen rubbed his brow, “I confirm, your Majesty, that the spell might be reversed. And, unless I am mistaken, it can be done by spending the night at the palace. The third crowing of the rooster, as long as it catches the striga outside her sarcophagus, will end the spell. That is what is usually done with strigas.” 

“So simple?” Maric asked with raised eyebrow, a look of slight shock on his face. 

Cullen shook his head and used one hand to support his head,“It is not simple. First you have to survive the night. Then there are exceptions to the rule, for example, not one night but three. Consecutively. There are also cases which are...well...hopeless.” 

“Yes,” Maric bristled, “I keep hearing that from some people. Kill the monster because it’s  an incurable case. Master Templar, I am sure they have already spoken ro you. Am I right? Hack the man-eater to death without any more fuss, at the beginning, and the king nothing else could be done. I won’t pay, but they will. Very convenient. And cheap. Because the king will order the Templar beheaded or hanged and the gold will stay in the vaults where they belong.” 

Cullen grimaced at the image, “The king unconditionally orders the Templar to be beheaded?” 

Maric looks at Cullen in the eye for a long time. Maric could see the different shades of gold in them. He looked away. “The king does not know,” he finally said, “But the Templar should bear such an eventuality in mind. Should he choose to  _ not  _ save my daughter.” 

Cullen was silent for a moment. He can understand why Maric feels so angry. He had a small child, a daughter of sorts, who loved him without question. If anything happened to her...yes, he understands. The world would burn if it meant she would be happy. He looks down at the desk, “I intend to do what is in my power. But if it goes badly, I will defend my iife. I also have a child waiting for me. Your Majesty must also be prepared for such an eventuality.” 

Maric got up, “You did not understand me. It’s obvious you’ll kill her if it becomes necessary, whether I like it or not. Because otherwise she’ll kill you, surely and inevitably. I won’t punish anyone who kills her in self defense. But I will not allow her to be killed without trying to save her. There have already been attempts to set fire to the old palace. They shout at her with arrows, dug pits and set up traps and snares, until I hung a few of her attackers. But that is not the point. Templar, listen!” 

“I am listening,” 

Maric wrung his hands, “After the third crowing of the rooster, there will be no striga. If I understand correctly,” Cullen nodded and Maric took a deep breath, “What...will there be?”

“If all goes well? A fourteen year old girl.” Cullen said. He tried to picture his daughter that old. He can’t. He will always see the five year old who follows him around when he goes back to the Templar Guild. 

“With red eyes? Crocodile teeth?” 

“A normal fourteen year old girl. Except that…”

“Well?!” 

Cullen clicked his tongue, “Physically.” 

The room was silent and then Maric looked down at his feet, “I see. And mentall? Every day a bucket of blood? A little childs thigh?” 

Cullen gave him a very dull look, “No.”

“Then?” Maric snapped. 

“Mentally, there is no telling. On the level, I think, of a three or four year old if she mentally aged at all. She’ll require loving care for a long,  _ long,  _ time.” 

“That ‘s obvious.” Maric placed his hands on his hips and then shook his head, “Templar?” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Can... _ this... _ happen to her again. Later on in her life, I mean.” 

Cullen was silent, but his golden eyes said the answer.

“Aha,” Maric chuckled dryly, “It can. And what then?” 

Cullen tapped his finger on the desk twice and then spoke, “Should she die after a long swoon lasting several days, he body will have to be burned. Quickly.” 

Maric grew gloomy, “She must be burned?” 

“I do not think it will come to that,” added Cullen, “Just to be sure, I will give you some instructions for her, to lessen the danger.” 

“Right now? Is it too soon, master Templar? And if—”

Cullen held up his hand to stop Maric, “Right now, many things may happen, your majesty. It could be that you’ll find a princess in the morning, the spell already broken and my corpse.” 

“Even so? Despite my permission to defend yourself? Which, it seems, wasn’t that important to you.”Maric accused. 

Templar could not have children, everyone knew that. When Templar spoke of their “children” many thought of them as speaking about their wards they had picked to take their places when they died. Not many knew they their children were the weak ones, the kind ones, the ones who had mother but no fathers. Bastards and whore-sons all. Templar loved their children, despite the names cast on them. He thought of his baby, for she had been a baby when he had held her, and her eyes and face and just,  _ her.  _ And Cullen understood Maric, and Cullen knew she would never forgive him this transgression should he fail.

But she would grow to understand. And that was all Cullen could hope for. 

“This is a serious matter, your majesty. The risk is great. That is why you must listen: the princess should always wear a sapphire around her neck, to protect her better, include a silver chain and an inclusion. She must wear this day or night. Bathing even.  _ Never  _ let her remove it.” 

“What is an inclusion?” Maric asked him. 

“A sapphire with a pocket of air trapped within the stone. Aside from that, every now and then you should burn juniper, broom and aspen in the fireplace of her chamber.” 

Maric grew pensive, “I thank you for your advice, Templar. I will pay heed if—and now listen to me carefully. If you find the case is hopeless, kill her. If you undo the spell but the girl is not...normal. If you have a shadow of a doubt as to whether you have been entirely successful, kill her. Do not worry, you have nothing to fear from me. I’ll shut at you in front of the others, banish you from the palace and the town, nothing more. Of course I won’t give you the reward, but maybe I’ll manage to negotiate something from you know who.” 

They were both silent for a moment. 

“Thank you, your highness.” Cullen said with a tip of his head. 

“Cullen.” Maric said softly, for the first time using his first name.

“Yes.” 

“How much truth is there in the rumor that the child is as she is because I spelt with my sister?” 

“Not much. A spell has to be cast, they don’t cast themselves. But I think your congress, with your sister was the reason the spell was cast. This is the result.” 

“As I thought. That is what some of the Knowing Ones said, although not all of them. Cullen? Where do such things come from? Spells, magic?” 

Cullen smirked at him, “I don’t know, your majesty. Knowing Ones study the causes of such phenomena. For us Templars the knowledge that concentrated power of will can such phenomena is enough for us. That the knowledge to fight them.”

“And kill them?” 

Cullen gave a flick of his wrist, “Usually. Besides, that is what we’re usually paid for. Only a few demand that reversal of spells. As a rule people simply want to defend themselves from danger. If the monster has men on its conscience then revenge can also come into play.” 

The king straightened his spine, took a few paces across the chamber, and stopped in front of the Templars sword hanging on the wall. 

“With this?” Maric asked, not looking at Cullen. 

“No.” Cullen chuckled, “Silver is for monster. That is for men.” 

“So I heard. Do you know what, Cullen? I’m going to the crypt with you.” 

“Out of the question.” 

Maric turned, his eyes glinted, “Do you know,  _ sorcerer,  _ that I have not seen her. Neither after she was born, nor later? I was afraid. I may never see her, am I not correct? At least I have the right to see my daughter while you’re murdering her.” 

Cullen gripped the arm rest under him. He had seen Abelas born and had watched her grow for five years now. He stood stiffly, “I repeat, it’s out of the question. It is certain death. For me as well as you. If my attention, if my will falters— _ no,  _ your highness.” 

Maric turned away, started toward the door. For a moment Cullen thought he would leave without a word, without so much as a parting look or gesture. As though the answers he had given had put him into a foul mood. People always wanted  _ their  _ version of the truth, but the  _ truth.  _ They only said they wanted it. But once it was given they were never happy. Cullen didn’t know why he even bothered. 

The king stopped and looked at him, “You inspire trust, although I know what a rogue you are. I was told what happened at the tavern, and I’m sure you killed those thugs solely for word to spread, to  _ shock  _ people. To shock  _ me.  _ It’s obvious that you could have dealt with them without killing. I’m afraid I’ll never know whether you are going there to save my daughter or to kill her. But I agree to it, I have to agree. Do know why?” 

“No.” 

“Because I think that she suffering. Am i right?” 

Cullen didn’t answer him but Maric could see it in his golden eyes. He knew the answer looking into those unholy demonic things. He slammed the door on his way out. 


	6. chapter five

Cullen looked out of the palace window for the last time. Dusk was falling rapidly. Beyond the lake the distant lights of Ferelden twinkled. There was a wildness around the old palace—a strip of no-man’s land with which, over seven years, the town had cut itself off from this dangerous place, leaving nothing but a few ruins, rotten beams and the remains of a gap-toothed palisade which had obviously been worth dismantling and moving. As far away as possible—at the opposite end of the settlement—the king had built his new residence. The stout tower of his new palace loomed black in the distance, against the darkening blue of the sky. In one of the empty, plundered chambers, the Templar  returned to the dusty table at which he was preparing, calmly and meticulously. He knew he had plenty of time. 

The striga would not leave her crypt before midnight. On the table in front of him he had a small chest with metal fittings. He opened it. Inside, packed tightly in compartments lined with dry grass, stood small vials of dark glass. The Templar removed three. From the floor, he picked up an oblong packet thickly wrapped in sheep's skin and fastened with a leather strap. He unwrapped it and pulled out a sword with an elaborate hilt, in a black, shiny scabbard covered with rows of runic signs and symbols. He drew the blade, which lit up with a pure shine of mirror-like brightness. 

It was pure silver. 

Cullen whispered an incantation and drank, one after the other, the contents of two vials, placing his left hand on the blade of the sword after each sip. Then, wrapping himself tightly in his black coat, he sat down on the floor. There were no chairs in the chamber, or in the rest of the palace. He sat motionless, his eyes closed. His breathing at first even, suddenly quickened, became rasping and tense. And then stopped completely. The mixture which helped the Templar gain full control of his body was chiefly made up of veratrum, stramonium, hawthorn and spurge. 

The other ingredients had no name is any human language. For anyone—who was not like Cullen, insured to it from childhood—it would have been lethal poison. The Templar turned his head abruptly. In the silence, his hearing sharpened beyond measure, easily picked out a rustle of footsteps through the courtyard overgrown with stinging nettles. It could not be the striga. The steps were too light. Cullen threw his sword across his back, his his bundle in the hearth of the ruined chimney place and—silent as a bat or owl on the hunt—ran downstairs. 

It was still light enough in the courtyard for the approaching man to see the Templars face. The man, Sven, backed away abruptly; an involuntary grimace of terror and repulsion on his lips. The Templar smiled wryly—he knew what he looked like. After drinking a mixture of banewort, monk’s blood and eyebright the face takes on the color of chalk, and the pupils fill the entire iris. But the mixture enables one to see in the deepest darkness, and this is what Cullen wanted. Sven quickly regained control. 

“You look as if you were already a corpse,  _ Templar _ ,” Sven sneered at him, “from fear no doubt. Don’t be afraid. I bring you a reprieve.” The Templar did not reply. Cullen merely looked at him with a blank look, “Don’t you hear what I say, you  **Imperium** charlatan?! You’re saved. And rich.” Sven hefted a sizeable purse in his hand and threw it at Cullen’s feet, “A thousand coins. Take it, get on your horse and get out of here.” 

Cullen smiled at him. 

Sven raised his voice, “Don’t  _ smirk _ at me! And don’t waste my  _ time _ . I have no intention of standing here until midnight. Don’t you understand? I do not wish you to undo the spell. No, you haven’t guessed. I am not in league with Gordon and Andrzej. I don’t want want you to kill her. You are simply to  **leave** . Everything is to stay as it is.” 

The Templar did not move. He did not want the mage to realize how fast his movements and reactions now were. It was quickly growing dark. A relief to him as even the semi-darkness of dusk was too bright for his dilated pupils, “And why, sir, is everything to  _ remain _ as it is?” he said each word slowly and made sure to enunciate clearly.

“Now that,” Sven raised his head proudly, “should really be of damn  _ little _ concern to you.” 

“And what if I already know?’ 

Sven smirked at him, “Go on.” 

“It will be easier to remove Maric from the throne if the striga frightens the people even more? If the royal madness completely disgust both the magnates and common folk, am I right? I came here by the way of Tevinter and Orlais. There is much talk there that there are those in Red Cliffe who look to  _ King Calian _ as their savior and true monarch. But I, Lord Sven, do not care about politics, or the successions of thrones, or the revolutions in the palaces. I am here to accomplish my task. Have you never heard of a sense of responsibility and plain honesty? About professional ethics?”

“Careful to whom you speak, you vagabond!” Sven yelled furiously, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, “I have had  **enough** of this. I am not accustomed to hold such discussions! Look at you— _ ethics, codes of practice, morality _ ? Who are  **you** to talk? A brigand who’s barely arrived before he starts murdering men? Who bends double to Maric and behind his  _ back _ bargains with Andrej like a hired thug? And you are to turn your nose up at  _ me _ ? Play at being a Knowing One? A magician?  _ You scheming Templar _ ! Be gone before I run the flat of my sword across your gob!” 

The Templar did not stir. He stood calmly, “You’d better leave, Lord Sven,” he said softly, “It’s growing dark.” 

Sven took a step back and drew his sword, “You asked for this, you sorcerer. I’ll you you. Your tricks won’t help you. I carry a turtle-stone!”

Cullen gave him a wicked grin. 


	7. chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen meets the striga at last.

Sven quickly regained consciousness and looked around in the total darkness. He noticed that he was tied up. He did not see Cullen standing right beside him. But he realized where he was and let out a prolonged, terrifying howl. 

“Be quiet.” Cullen sighed, “Otherwise you’ll lure her out before her time.” 

“You damned murderer! Where are you? Untie me immediately, you louse! You’ll hang for this, you son of a bitch!” 

“Quiet.” 

Sven panted heavily and moaned, “You’re leaving me here to be devoured by her! Tied up!” he hissed at Cullen with a vile invective.

“No,” Cullen told him with a sneer on his face, “I’ll let you go. But not right now.” 

“You heathen,” Sven hissed as he bucked in his bonds, “I’m here to distract the striga, aren’t I?” 

“Yes.” 

Sven didn’t say anything as he caught his breath and he stopped wiggling. After a few moments he whispered, “Templar?” 

“Yes?” 

“It’s true that I wanted to overthrow the king,” Sven confessed, “I’m not the only one. But I am the only one who wanted him dead. I wanted him to die in agony, to go mad, to rot alive. Do you know why, Templar?” 

Cullen didn’t care but he answered dully, “Enlighten me.” 

“I loved his sister. I loved the princess, the woman he made his mistress. I loved her! Templar, are you still listening to me?” 

“Yes.” 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sven sneered, “but it wasn’t like that. Believe me, I did cast any kind of magic. I didn’t know much about my magic at the time. I only said it once...in anger...Templar? Are you still here? Still listening? I can not see if you still linger.” 

Cullen rubbed at his eyes, “Yes. I am.” 

“It’s his mother, the old queen. It must be her. She couldn’t watch her children be like that. It wasn’t me. I only once you know, said it. I tried to make her see reason but she wouldn’t. Templar! Was it me? Did I cause this?” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“Templar? Is it almost midnight?” 

“Almost.” 

“Let me go.” Sven begged him, “Give me more time.” 

Cullen rolled his eyes, “No.” 

Sven did not hear the scrape of the tomb lid being opened and moved aside, but Cullen did. He leaned over and with his dagger, cut the mages bonds. Sven did not wait for the word. He jumped up and, numb in the legs and dizzy from the dark, hobbled clumsily as he tried to run. His eyes must have grown accustomed enough to the dark for him to see enough of his way from the main hall to the exit. The slab blocking the entrance to the crypt opened and fell to the floor with a thud. Cullen, prudently behind the staircase balustrade, saw the misshapen figure of the striga speeding swiftly and unerringly in the directions of Sven’s receding footsteps. 

Not the slightest sound issued from the striga. A terrible, quivering, frenzied scream tore the night, shook the old walls, continued rising and falling, vibrating. Cullen couldn’t make out exactly how far away it was—his sharpened senses told everything and nothing at the same time in a place as old as this—but he knew that the striga had caught up with Sven quickly. Too quickly. He stepped into the middle of the hall, stood right at the entrance to the crypt, and held his head high. He threw down his coat, twitched his shoulder, adjusted the position of his sword, pulled his gauntlets tighter to his hands. He still had some time. 

He knew that the striga, although well fed after the last full moon, would not readily abandon Sven’s corpse. The heart and liver, for her, were valuable reserves of nutrition for the long periods spent in lethargic sleep. Cullen waited. By his count, there were about three hours left before dawn. The roosters crow could only mislead him. Besides, there were probably no farms nearby anymore. He heard her. She was trudging slowly, shuffling along the floor. 

And then he saw her. 

The descriptions had been accurate. The disproportionately large head set on a short neck, the tangled, curly halo of reddish hair. Her eyes shone in the darkness like an animals. The striga stood motionless, her gaze fixed on Cullen. Suddenly she opened her jaws—as if proud of her rows of pointed white teeth—then snapped them shut with a crack like a chest being closed. And she leapt, slashing at him with her bloodied claws. Cullen jumped to the side, spun a swift pirouette. 

She rubbed against him, also spun, slicing through the air with her talons. She didn’t lose her balance and attacked anew, mid-spin, gnashing her teeth fractions of an inch from his face. Cullen jumped away, chasing the direction of his spin with a fluttering pirouette to confuse the striga. As he leapt away he dealt a hard blow to the side of her head with the silver spikes that were studding his gauntlets. The striga roared horribly, filling the palace with a booming echo, fell the ground, clutching her wound, and howling. He smiled down at her maliciously. His first attempt, as he had hoped. 

Silver was fatal to monsters. 

But she wasn’t a monster, not born as one anyway. But there was a chance, from this wound alone, there was chance that she weak against it. It bode well for lifting the curse. And it also meant that his silver sword, should he need it, might save his life. The striga was in hurry for her next attack. She rose slowly, her teeth bared, dribbling repulsively at him. Cullen backed away and carefully, placing his feet, traced a semi-circle. 

By slowing and quicking his movements he distracted the striga, making it difficult for her to leap. As he walked, he unwound his silver chain, heavy with a weight at the end. The moment the striga tensed and leapt the chain whistled through the air and, coiling like a snake, twined itself around the monsters shoulders, neck and head. The strigas jump a tumble, and she let out an ear piercing whistle. She thrashed around on the floor, howling with fury or from the burning pain inflicted by the silver. Cullen was content—if he wanted he could kill the striga without great difficulty. But he did not draw his sword. 

Nothing in the strigas behavior had given him reason to think she might be an incurable case. Cullen moved to a safer distance and, without letting the writhing shape on the floor out of his sight, breathed deeply and focused himself. The chain snapped. The silver links scattered like rain in all directions, ringing against the stone. The striga, blind with fury, tumbled to her feet as she began to attack, roaring. Cullen waited calmly and with his raised right hand, traced the sign og Aard in front of him. The sign was used as large gust of wind, or a use of one's own magical energy to push foes back and give you room to move.and it did its job. 

The striga fell back as if hit by a mallet but kept her feet under her, she extended her talons, bared her fangs and snapped at him.  Her hair stood on end and fluttered as if she were walking against a fierce wind. She took one step at a time, with great difficulty, but she advanced slowly nonetheless. She advanced, her fangs snapping together as she did so. Cullen frew uneasy. He did not expect such a simple sign to paralyze her, but he didn’t expect the beast to overcome it so easily. He could not hold the sign for long, he need his magic for other signs and spells to fight.

She had ten steps to go before she would be able to land a killing blow to him. He smirked and let the sign go, and the striga was taken by surprise. She fell to the floor and tripped over her feet, tumbling down the stairs located to her left, and down into the crypts entrance that had opened in the floor years ago. Her shriek of indignation rang up to him from below. To gan time, Cullen jumped on the stairs leading to the gallery. He had not even gotten halfway up when the striga crawled out of the crypt, speeding along like a spider on the hunt. Cullen waited until she had run up the stairs after him, then leapt over the balustrade. 

The striga turned on the stairs in one smooth motion, sprang and flew at him with amazing speed. She did not let herself be deceived by his pirouette this time; twice her claws left their mark on his leather tunic. But another hard blow from his gauntlets threw her aside and made her stumble on her feet. Cullen, feeling fury building inside him, swayed, bent backwards and with a kick like a horse, knocked her off her feet and off the stairs to the ground below. The roar she lout shook the whole palace and made some of the plaster fall from the ceiling. The striga sprang up, shaking with anger and a lust for murder. Cullen waited. He drew his sword at last, traced circles with it in the air, and skirted the striga, taking care that the movement of his sword was not in rhythm with his steps. 

The striga did not jump or leap at him. She approached slowly, following the bright streaks the sword was making with her eyes. Cullen stopped suddenly, his sword frozen, raised above his head. The striga, surprised, also stopped. Cullen traced a slow semicircle with the blade stip, took a step in her direction. Then another. Then he leapt at her, swinging his sword at her head. 

The striga curled into herself and zigzagged as she retreated. Cullen was close again, the silver shimmering in his hand. His eyes lit up with an ominous glow, a hoarse roar tore through his clenched teeth. The striga backed away away, pushed by her own fear of his rage. She was terrified and in some kind of pain by the unknown feeling coming off of him. She let out a shaking squeak, turned on the spot and ran off in a desperate attempt to escape down the dark corridors. Cullen stood in the middle of the hall. 

Alone. It had taken a long time, he thought, before this dance on the edge of an abyss, this made, macabra ballet of a fight, that achieve the desired effect, allowed him to psychically become one with his opponent, to reach the concentrated will of her. The evil that  _ was  _ the striga. He had taken that evil and made his own body into a mirror, forced her to see and feel the evil that was her. He hadn’t felt an evil like this, not even from basilisks, who enjoyed it, they had a reputation for it. It would be better this way. It would take her a long time to recover from her shock. 

Cullen went to the entrance of the crypt and gazed down into the inky darkness of it. Cullen knew that she could not return to her sleeping place until the first light. He went down the stairs. The crypt wasn’t large, but it was big enough to hold three stone sarcophagi. The slab covering the first was pushed aside. He pulled a vile from beneath his tunic, quickly drank it down and climbed into the tomb and stretched out. It was a double tomb—for mother and daughter. 

He had only just pulled the cover closed when he heard the striga roar again. He lay on his back next to the mummified corpse of the queen and closed his eyes. He now only had to wait as she wasted her time looking for him. 


	8. chapter seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dawn of the final day

When he opened his eyes, he knew that not much time had passed and his sleep had healed some of his wounds. But he had still longer than he had intended to sleep. He pricked up his ears and heard nothing. His senses were now functioning normally instead of being pushed like how they had earlier. He took hold of his sword and murmuring an incantation, ran his hand across the lid of the sarcophagus. He then moved the slab slightly and a couple of inches. Silence. 

He pushed the lid further and sat, holding his weapon at the ready and lifted his head above the tomb. The crypt was dark but the Templar knew that outside dawn was breaking. He struck a light and lit a miniature lamp, lifting it, throwing strange shadows across the walls. It was empty inside of the crypt. He scrambled from the sarcophagus with aching limbs and numb feet. Then he saw her. She was lying on her back next to the tomb, naked and unconscious. 

She was rather ugly. Slim with small pointed breast and dirty from head to toe. Her hair was a plaxen red color and reached almost to her waist. Standing the lamp on the lip of the slab he knelt beside her and leaned over. Her lips were pale and her face was bloody where he had hit her cheekbone. Cullen removed his gloves, put his sword aside and without any fuss, drew her top lip with with fingers to expose her teeth. Her teeth were normal as anyone else's. 

He reached for her hand which was buried in her tangled hair. Before he took it he saw her open her eyes. Too late to try and dodge. She swiped him across the neck with her talons cutting deep. Blood splashed onto her face. She howled, striking him in the eyes with her other hand. He fell on her, grabbing her wrists, nailing her to the floor. She gnashing her teeth, which were now too short and too human to reach him, before his eyes. 

He butted his face into her own and pinned her down all the harder. He had to keep her like this here until the sun rose and the rooster crowed at the dawn of man. His blood washed like rain over her and she was too weak now to dislodge him. As he held her down, he closed his eyes and saw a different little girl fighting to push him off of her as he dug his fingers into her belly. Finally she stopped under him and he opened his eyes. She had passed out and she was there, a human girl with red hair and dirty skin and hollow cheeks. She was normal. 

He got up with difficulty as the world around him spun. He fainted. Beyond the lake, the rooster crowed long and loud three times.  


	9. chapter eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rest now, Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!

He saw the whitened walls and beamed ceiling of the small chamber above the guardroom. He moved his head, grimacing with pain, and moaned. His neck was bandaged, thickly, thoroughly, professionally. 

“Lie still,Templar,” said Andrzej. “Lie, do not move.” 

“My… sword…” 

“Yes, yes. Of course, what is most important is your Templar’s silver sword. It’s here, don’t worry. Both the sword and your little trunk. And the three thousand orens. Yes, yes, don’t utter a word. It is I who am an old fool and you the wise witcher. Maric has been repeating it over and over for the last two days.” 

“Two—” 

“Oh yes, two. She slit your neck open quite thoroughly. One could see everything you have inside there. You lost a great deal of blood. Fortunately we hurried to the palace straight after the third crowing of the cock. Nobody slept in Ferelden that night. It was impossible; you made a terrible noise. Does my talking tire you?” 

“The prin… cess?” Cullen gasped. 

He knew a different little girl with wide golden eyes and pretty black hair. He would never be able to forgive himself if he cost someone else their little girl. And oh how funny that it is. A great and mighty Templar brought to his knees by a little girl who wants to braid his hair and be carried on his shoulder. The only child he would ever have. And she wasn’t even his. 

“The princess is like a princess. Thin. And somewhat dull-witted. She weeps incessantly and wets her bed. But Maric says this will change. I don’t think it’ll change for the worse, do you, Cullen?” The witcher closed his eyes. “Good. I take my leave now. Rest.” Andrzej got up. “Cullen? Before I go, tell me: why did you try to bite her to death? Eh? Cullen?” 

The Templar was asleep.


End file.
